


Infatuation

by Zoe1078



Series: Pre Wedding Fic [3]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-10 14:33:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7848811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoe1078/pseuds/Zoe1078
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to a tumblr prompt seeking a voyeur Jamie watching Claire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jamie sat ramrod straight upon his mount, staring directly ahead. Heat infused his cheeks, and he knew they must be bright red. Was she looking at him? She was, wasn’t she? She was off to the side and slightly behind him. How much could she see? 

He dug his heels into the flanks of his horse to urge it forward, causing pain to shoot through his already-throbbing ankle. That was good. Pain was good. Pain was what he deserved, and it was distracting. Additionally, this placed him in front of Claire in their group, where she couldn't see his face. Bad enough she had caught him spying on her that morning. She didn't need to know how embarrassed he was over his own actions, nor how difficult it was to conceal his body's reaction to her. Even now, hours after the fact, and despite the persistent discomfort of his injured ankle, he had to adjust his kilt so as to not give himself away, because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. 

That morning, she had just left to attend to her ablutions when Dougal declared that they must break camp and depart, but they couldn't find Claire. Jamie went looking for her before Dougal lost his temper.

It was several minutes before he saw her sitting on a rock by a flowing stream. She was tugging off her kerchief, thus exposing her long, elegant neck and the round swell of her bosom. He opened his mouth to call out to her, but when he saw her pull up her skirt, the words died in his throat. She extended one foot into the air, loosened the garter around her thigh, and carefully rolled down her stocking to expose a long, slim leg and smooth, creamy skin. A voice in the back of his brain sternly reminded Jamie to turn his back to her and announce his presence, but when she removed the other stocking and dropped it casually beside her, he disregarded the voice. Instead, seemingly against his will, his feet carried him behind the thick brush. He was infinitely grateful for the decision when she plunged her feet into the cool water, tipped her head back in relief, and let out a groan. 

The sound was delicious, and it shot straight to his groin. It reminded him vaguely of sounds he had heard in Paris brothels, though ironically, it was infinitely more sensual than anything he had ever heard in such a place. He had never partaken of their services, but his friends had dragged him nonetheless, and he had nursed overpriced, poor quality wine while waiting for them. Whores gravitated to him, but when it became clear that he would spend no money on them, they wandered away in search of more lucrative marks, leaving him listening to the sounds that filtered through the ceiling. Those were loud, exaggerated, and, he was sure, completely false. This was something else entirely, and he wanted to hear Claire make the sound again, preferably directly into his ear.

Likewise, the primitive part of his brain wanted her to remove more clothing. Careful not to soak her skirts, Claire kept them bunched high around her thighs as she swung her legs back and forth and kicked droplets of river water high into the air. Her movements were so vigorous, in fact, that some of the droplets landed on her chest. She laughed a little at her own actions, but must have liked the sensation, for she then bent over to soak a wet cloth in the river. She gathered her hair at her crown with one hand, and with the other, stroked her bare skin with the wet fabric, sending rivulets of water don her spine and between her breasts. 

Jamie wanted to lap up the droplets with his tongue. The voice of his conscience scolded him for his lust, so he told the voice that he simply needed the water to... to quench his thirst. Yes, that was it. Because his mouth was suddenly quite dry. 

But when she tugged free a knot and began to unlace her dress, he gave up all pretense of morality. Even the pestering voice inside his mind fell silent, awaiting the revelation of Claire’s body. Perhaps it was the shift she’d worn the first time he’d seen her, her hair spilling down round her shoulders, drenched with rain, which was as intimate an appearance as he had ever seen on a woman, but he had been imagining what she looked like bare since the very first moment they’d met.  

He had thought he would see her, see all of her, for the first time on their wedding night. It was a sentimental notion, to be sure. Considering that he had done absolutely nothing to court her, outlaw that he was, and she had given no signs that she wished to be courted, it was a premature notion at best. Absurd, really. Lord, she didn't even know his real name! But he remembered what his father had told him, that when he found the right lass, he would simply know. And know he did, in the marrow of his bones, despite the fact that she seemed to share no such knowledge, despite having no inkling how to make such a union come about.

He would have to figure that out later, for Claire drew the stomacher from her opened bodice. All coherent thought fled from Jamie's brain, overridden by simple, animal want. 

When she started to unlace her stays, however, a twig snapped somewhere behind him, and footsteps approached. Jamie cursed, quietly he hoped, while Claire yanked her feet from the water. 

“Laddie, is that you? Mistress?” It was Rupert. 

Jamie could have throttled him. Not only did he stop Claire from showing herself, but he was about to reveal Jamie’s hiding place behind the thicket. He only had two choices: announce himself or flee. As tempting as the latter was, he had already basically been caught, so he reluctantly chose the latter. Could he pretend he had just arrived? “Mistress Beauchamp?” he called out. His voice cracked in the middle of her name, but his embarrassment at the adolescent sound was subsumed by a different humiliation when he tripped on a root as he strode into the path. 

“Who’s--Mr. MacTavish? Are you all right?” she replied. She rushed over to see if he needed help.

He righted himself. “I’m fine! Just clumsy. I was looking for ye, as Dougal wants to be on our way.” As she approached, he realized her stomacher still wasn’t in place, and he was astonished at how much of her cleavage was visible.

In order to tear his eyes away, and to hide the cockstand threatening to tent his kilt, he folded over as if to check his ankle, which made her think that he'd lied when he said he was fine. “Did you hurt yourself?” 

She bent down to examine him, so when Rupert rounded the corner, he found Claire partly undressed and kneeling before Jamie, who was staring rather slack-jawed down her loosely opened bodice. “Och, oh! Seems I’ve interrupted ye! Perhaps I should...” He pointed back in the direction from whence he had come. 

“No!” Jamie yelled, while Mistress Beauchamp began to undo the buckles of his boot. This brought her face dangerously close to the part of his anatomy reacting most vigorously to her presence, which he simultaneously wanted her to attend to, yet hoped she wouldn’t notice. “Ye haven’t! Mistress, dinna do that!” Jamie tried to step backward, but she hadn’t let go of his boot, causing him to fall on his arse. In order to hide his kilt’s humiliating, rising shape, he rolled onto his side and tucked his knees toward his chest. Had she seen?  _ Please, no. _

Rupert started to laugh as Claire bent over him, offering him a hand to help him up. The other man surely knew what was going on. Jamie hoped the ground would open to swallow him, or that a wild boar would race out of the trees and gore him in the heart, or that a redcoat company would appear to arrest him and drag him away, preferably to be hanged. He would go straight to Hell, of course, since lust was a sin, and oh, how he sinned! But it couldn’t be worse than this. When none of these things happened, he tried to make her go away by stammering, “Your--I’m--um--It’s--There’s--um--” Perhaps his terrible awkwardness would drive her away.

No such luck. Was it really possible that she didn't know what she was doing to him? She gave no indication that she did, though he felt as if he might as well have hung a sign round his neck declaring his undying love and desperate lust for her. Or was she simply cruel? Did she torture him for her own amusement? That seemed unlike her, and she didn’t look especially amused, or, for that matter, particularly angry. She only seemed concerned. “Did you hit your head when you fell?” Now she ran her fingers through his hair to probe at his scalp. This was a mixed blessing. It felt good, much, much too good, and it made him wonder for the thousandth time what her hands would feel like down below, but it also pulled her away from the lower half of his body while simultaneously thrusting her soft breasts directly in front of his face. Rupert doubled over with laughter while Jamie gawked at her. He tried to picture the most distressing and disturbing images in his repertoire to rid himself of his affliction, and he tried to tear his gaze away, but he seemed to have lost control over his own eyes, cock, and brain. Nothing helped, not with so much Claire skin on display and so many gentle Claire touches caressing him. 

In the end, it was actually Rupert who saved him. She didn’t appreciate the other man’s amusement at Jamie's predicament and scolded him. “He’s hurt! Try to make yourself useful, hmm? Find something for him to lean on. I think he’s twisted his ankle.”

Rupert wiped mirthful tears from his eyes and shook his head. “Ah, but I ken you have matters well in h-hand, Mistress…” Now he sputtered another snort of amusement at his own joke. “Or ye would have, had I no’ barged in...”

Claire stood straight, placed her hands on her hips, and rolled her eyes. “I need you to find a sturdy branch, about yay long.” She held her hands apart to illustrate. When Rupert didn’t move, she ordered, “Go!” then told Jamie, “Stay where you are. Don’t get up yet, just in case you get dizzy when you stand.”

When she tried to examine his scalp again, he waved her away. “I didna hit my heid, I swear.” 

“Are you sure? You seem a bit discombobulated.”

“I’m not dis--I’m fine, truly.”

She tipped his chin up so she could look at his pupils, and her warm breath washed across his face. She smelled good, like the wee herbs she picked. “Any headache? Dizziness? Altered vision?” He denied any such symptoms, and though she didn’t seem to believe him, she said, “Let me get my kerchief. I can use it to bind your ankle.”

Jamie was simultaneously relieved and bereft when she stepped away. He rose to his feet and realized to his horror that his anatomy and his kilt still betrayed him. The only thing he could think to do to rid himself of the offending cockstand was to hurt himself, since nothing else had worked. When she turned her back to him, he planted his “injured” foot under the very root he had tripped on and pivoted his body to the side, twisting it just as she thought he had already done. Indeed, pain lanced through the limb, and he cried out. The sound was masked by a fresh guffaw from Rupert, who thankfully drew Claire's attention away from Jamie. 

When she returned, he was obediently sitting on the ground with his boot removed. He immediately noticed she still hadn’t fixed her clothing, so he kept his eyes fixed firmly at a point in the distance behind her left ear as she probed at his ankle, which was, thankfully, now the only part of him that was swollen.

He couldn't look at either of his companions as he hobbled back to camp. He hoped Mistress Beauchamp didn't know what had happened. Thank God she seemed wholly unaware of her own beauty, and of the effect she had on him. He would know it if she thought anything was amiss, would he not? For she had a glass face, and every thought appeared like written words on her expression. If she had seen his predicament, surely she would either be angry, embarrassed, or… pleased? Was there any chance she might be pleased? Was that why she hadn’t stopped to lace her stays and bodice before tending to him? Was it purposeful? He snuck a peek at her, breaking his own rule of facing only forward and looking anywhere but at her, but she appeared only detached, as if she was occupied by distant places or absent people.

Rupert, on the other hand, caught him looking and grinned lasciviously. Claire might not know, but Rupert definitely did, if the unabashed amusement on the other man's face was any indication. Rupert had better keep his mouth shut, otherwise Jamie would have no choice but to kill him in cold blood before falling dead from complete mortification. 

As he turned back, Claire’s bright eyes met his. Damn. She'd noticed him. His cheeks flamed once more, and he knew he looked like a smitten schoolboy. But instead of frowning or looking away, she smiled, and Lord, did she have a lovely smile! Suddenly he didn't care that he looked a fool, for making her smile was worth any amount of embarrassment. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, he avoided Mistress Beauchamp completely. He said not a word, nor did he even make eye contact with her. He was unable to keep his gaze from her entirely, but he always waited until he was certain she wouldn't notice before he risked a glance. This meant he had to keep his peripheral vision on her at all times, which left him so preoccupied that he nearly brained himself on a low-lying branch when his horse strayed from the path to graze. 

Murtagh pulled up beside him as he urged his horse back to the road. “What’s wrong wi’ ye, lad? Where’s yer heid?”

“Up his own arse, I expect,” Rupert called out as his horse plodded by.

Angus helpfully added, “Or up Mistress Beauchamp’s--ow!” Jamie cut him off by flinging a walnut that bounced off Angus’s skull. “That hurt!”

Murtagh nodded approvingly.  “Weel, nothing wrong with your aim, I see.”

Jamie peered ahead to see if Claire had noticed the disturbance, but she was deep in conversation with Ned. That was good. She and the lawyer had taken quite the liking to one another, and they occupied each other on the road. A few days ago, he actually found himself jealous of the old man’s familiarity with her, but now he was grateful that her attention was occupied. 

He managed not to speak with her for the rest of the day and into the night, though there was no way to avoid all the men. His infatuation with her had become common knowledge to all but her, it seemed, and they teased him mercilessly, though thankfully out of her earshot. It made him irritable and unpleasant. When they stopped at a tavern that evening for food and for Dougal to hold court, he took care to sit on the opposite side of the room, away from her. He glowered into his stew and worked himself into a visible mood, which inadvertently served his uncle’s purpose when Dougal ripped off his shirt to display his scars to the assembled villagers. He looked bitter and angry, and he stormed upstairs with the remnants of his shirt in his hand to repair it. 

He was sitting in an empty room, using the hearth’s firelight for his sewing, when Claire walked by. He thought she paused briefly in the entrance, but he was careful not to look up. In fact, he hunched further over his shirt to hide the blush spreading up his neck. She shook her head slightly and kept going. She was alone, and she headed around the corner to the farthest room. He heard the door open and shut, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps tomorrow he could go a full day without humiliating himself. At least his limp had faded, though his ankle still ached.

Just as he bit off the end of the thread he’d finished repairing his shirt with, he heard drunken stumbling at the stairs. An unfamiliar, gruff voice said, “She went this way.” 

Jamie froze. Were they talking about Claire?

“Which room?” This was a second voice, more slurred.

There was a little more thumping as the pair bumbled their way down the hall. “Dunno. This one?” A door squeaked open, and a deep curse followed. The door slammed. 

“Oi! No’ that one. No lass.”

They had better not be talking about her.

“Or a really ugly one!”

“Wi’ a beard! No’ as thick as mine, though. Do you think the Sassenach will like my beard?”

Now there was a snort. “‘Tween her thighs, ye mean? You’ll give her yer lice!”

“That’s no’ all I’ll give her!”

Jamie yanked on his shirt and stormed out of his room to find two strangers laughing uproariously. He folded his arms over his chest, stood straight, and blocked their way with his bulk. “Evening, gentlemen.”

A bearded man demanded, “Who are you?”

“I’m with the MacKenzie party. The party escorting the lady.”

The men didn’t heed his warning tone or imposing stance. The second man peered around him. “Do ye know which is her room? We wanted to, uh...”

The bearded one snorted. “To offer her our services!”

“Yes! Our, ahem, services!” The other made a lewd gesture with his hand.

Jamie grabbed the offensive hand and twisted it backward, threatening to break it. “Ye shall do no such thing.” He pulled it back a little farther, but released him when the man gasped. “Now perhaps you should go back down, and leave the lady to her rest.”

Without the influence of ale, the men would have realized how unlikely they were to get past Jamie. But sober they were not. The bearded fellow declared, “Rest? There’ll be no rest for her, not until we're done.” He tried to shoulder his way down the hall. 

Jamie grabbed his arm, spun him round, planted his foot in his opponent’s gut, and kicked him backward into his friend. “If you so much as look in her direction, your arm isn’t the only thing I’ll break! Off with ye, and don’t come back!”

The first fellow tried to stand and retaliate, but instead he tripped over his companion. Jamie swiftly drew his sword and pointed it at his throat, causing him to stumble backward. After a clumsy shuffle on the floor, they turned away, muttering epithets under their breath.

Jamie waited until they were gone, then lowered his arms uncertainly to his sides. He peered up and down the hallway. All was now silent. Would they be back? Would someone else? He had seen the way the villagers had looked at Claire. Some had eyed her with suspicion or curiosity, but more of the men had looked at her the way the drunkards had, the way that Jamie tried his damndest not to. 

What would have happened if he hadn't been there to stop them? Would they have made it into her room? Would they have been turned away by her door? Had she even bothered to bolt it? She wasn't careful enough, not nearly so. She was a brave lass, too brave for her own good, headstrong and bold. She was like no one he had ever met. Her willfulness intrigued and terrified him, but most of all, it attracted him like a moth to flame.

Without conscious intention, he found himself rounding the corner and standing in front of her room. He raised his fist to knock, but suddenly remembered his recent actions and became embarrassed. No, he couldn't figure out what to say. He had no excuse for speaking with her, no explanation he was willing to give. But he had to be sure she was safe. What if someone had been lying in wait for her when she entered? What if another brute snuck by while he wasn't looking, and forced his way in? He pressed his ear to the door, hoping to hear something to reassure him, but all was silent. The thick wood revealed nothing. Was she quiet because she was sleeping, or because something awful had happened to her? His mind spun with possibilities, each more horrifying (though less likely) than the last. He worked himself into a frenzy of imagination until he could stand it no longer. He dropped to his knees and peered through the keyhole.

A chair sat by the fire. Piled atop it was a bundle of cloth. Then Claire moved into view, and he realized that the pile consisted of nearly all her clothing, because she was clad only in her shift, which she pushed down from her shoulders. The thin garment slipped to the floor. 

Skin. All he saw was fair, smooth, opalescent skin. Lord, she was as naked as the day she was born! 

Every muscle in his body froze, paralyzed with awe. He was looking at her bare back. Her brown curls tickled her delicate shoulders, her narrow waist curved in, her spine dipped in a subtle line down the center.  _ Dhia _ , he had no idea a woman’s spine could be so beautiful! It flared outward in the roundest, sweetest arse, and she stood on slim, supple legs. She was even lovelier than he had imagined, and oh, how he had imagined... 

And then a fresh shift fell into place. He was momentarily bereft until he realized that the firelight cast the silhouette of her body through the thin material, showing off every curve and valley. He was stunned, staring in wonderment at her form, until she pulled the covers back from the bed and climbed in, hiding herself from his eyes. He had only seen her nude for a few seconds, but it was enough to sear her image into his memory forever. 

Jamie slid down to the floor in a heap. He sat for long minutes, torn between lust and guilt, reliving the stunning moment of her nudity, yet cursing himself for it. Was he really any better than the men he had just thrown out of the hallway? He was the one who had looked upon her body without her knowledge, not them. But his intentions were different, surely. They all lusted after her, but only he knew her for the true mate of his heart, knew that she was the woman he would marry. In truth, he wanted to bed her far more than they, but he would only do so in the right way, with the blessing of the Church. For he would wed her, someday, and turn the sins of his heart into sacraments. He was certain, after all, that God had sent him this singular, incomparable woman. He had suspected it the moment he’d first seen her, but he had known it since the first time she had wept in his arms.

Now Jamie tucked the plaid around him and lay down to rest. In order to distract himself from what he had seen, or perhaps to atone for looking upon her without her knowledge, he began to pray the rosary. Ignoring the insistent demands of his body, which seemed entirely disconnected from his conscience, he meant to remain for the duration of the night to guard her against everyone who meant to do her harm, even himself.

* * *

 

_ Warm breath washed over his neck, and wild brown curls tickled his chest. The light touches felt so good, but he wanted more. He wanted her closer. He tried to hold her, but she floated away like mist. Instead of disappearing, however, he felt fleeting touches of her fingers along his collarbone, his arm, his jaw, his chest. She was everywhere and nowhere at once. Her scent hung in the air, but when he tried to put his hands on her, he couldn’t quite reach her. But she never disappeared entirely. She was behind him, beside him, her heat melting into him. He caught a flash of a delicate finger, the dip of her waist, the curve of her shoulder, the pink of her lips, the swell of her bottom.  _

_ “Sassenach!” But she kept slipping away. It was the sweetest torture.  _

_ Finally he caught her wrist and tugged her in. She made startled little, “Oh!” sound and allowed him to wrap his arm around her naked waist. As he pulled her close, she let out a chuckling little breath, and he couldn’t help but laugh in return. The laughter was lost between them as he lost himself in her mouth.  _

_ As he held her flush against him, trying to press as many inches of bare skin against hers, they both groaned at the sensation, for it seemed as if every nerve in his body was set alight by the contact. “Mo nighean donn,” he whispered against her, and she curled into him.  _

_ He took full advantage, bending over her and peppering her cheeks with kisses. She murmured her approval at the sensation, and he wanted to hear more. He started making his way along the angle of her jaw, and she let out a sigh that caressed the shell of his ear. He tasted the salt of her neck with his tongue, and she hummed in response, low in her throat. He could feel the vibrations in his lips. _

_ He ran his hands over her, cupping, exploring, and caressing. Soft flesh filled his palm. Whenever he reached a particularly sensitive area, she reacted with a twist of her hips, an arch of her back, or the digging of her fingers into his flesh. His hand slipped lower, and her hum turned into a low, needy groan. He drank in the sound and set about trying to draw it out of her again. He needed it more than water, more than air. _

_ But he wasn’t the only one who wanted to touch, taste, and feel. She kissed his chest, his neck, his collarbone, and then began to trail her fingers down his abdomen. “Claire…”  _

_ She heard his plea, and with a faint, “Yes,” wrapped her hand around his length and began... _

...And the dream slipped away. 

There were no soft curves, only the hard floor beneath him. He was tickled by the edge of his plaid, not her hair. The closed oaken door in front of him was smooth, but not nearly so smooth as her skin. And with a flush of shame, he realized the hand on his flesh was his own. He began to release his grip, but then a soft sound issued from the other side of the door, and he realized the sounds he had heard in his dream were real.

“Oh… Ohhhh!”

Claire was moaning, and it was the most sensual thing he had ever heard. Instinctively, he tightened his fist and let out an answering groan of his own. 

His own voice, loud in the silent hall, startled him so much that he froze. What if she had heard him? She would open up the door at any moment and find him defiling himself with thoughts of her. What on earth was he doing? He was worse than the perverted drunkards he’d thrown out earlier that evening. Ashamed, he released himself.

As the fog of his dream cleared, worry began to set in. Worry, and terrible jealousy. What was causing Claire to make such noises? Was she really alone? Was it possible that someone had snuck into her room? It couldn’t be, not with him lying pressed against it. They would have tripped over him in the darkness. And he was certain she had been alone when she climbed into bed. 

He lay there, tormented by lust, jealousy, and anxiety, until she let out a little whimper. Then he snapped up and pressed his eye to the keyhole once more. 

The fire had burned down to embers, but enough moonlight filtered in through the window that he could see Claire in the bed. The heavy covers lay tangled at her feet, and her shift was rucked up around her slim legs. Were it not for the shadows, he’d have seen her most secret places. But even the shadows couldn’t conceal the placement of her hand between those lovely thighs.

Jamie stared, uncomprehending. Was she awake? Asleep? Her eyes were tightly shut, but her body writhed hypnotically. Her hips twisted from side to side, and her back arched, thrusting her breasts upward toward… nothing. There was nothing there. No lover, no assailant, no partner of any kind. She was most definitely alone. 

Alone except for him, protector turned voyeur. Against the dictates of his conscience, his body ached for her. He wanted nothing more than to break down the door, pin her to the bed with his own, and take her. He wanted it, wanted her body, wanted her soul, more than he had ever wanted anything. 

Moments later, she rolled over, facing him, and he decided she was most likely asleep. Claire was dreaming, and for now, still. With a gulp of steading air, Jamie shifted slightly to the left, so that he could no longer see through the hole, and pressed his forehead to the wood. No. He wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t violate her privacy this way, let alone enter her sanctuary. Unless she opened the door and yanked him inside, he would respect her enough to go outside and… and… It was a sin to imagine her while he spilled his seed, was it not? But what choice did he have? He knew he’d never rid himself of his cockstand otherwise, and it was simply impossible not to recall her the way he had seen her, heard her, now that he had had a glimpse of her beautiful body and heard the intoxicating sounds she made. He would not be able to stop himself from imagining her moaning beneath him as he looked down at that beautiful arse while he drove himself...

He tried to stop the thought before it reached its inevitable conclusion, but the sight of her was branded into his memory forever. Surely he would think of her this way when he was old and grey and could no longer even remember his own name!

As he was debating where to go and what to do, Claire’s voice stopped him. She was quiet, but in the silence of the night, he heard her speak. The first few sounds were incomprehensible, dreaming mutterings, but then, clear as a bell, “Please, please… Don’t stop!”

And despite himself, he didn’t. As if she had spoken directly to him, he peered through the keyhole once more. She was still facing him, and in the dimness, he thought he saw a little frown on her brow. She was biting her lip. Her right hand was doing something, he couldn’t see what, between her legs. But her left was illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, and it cupped one breast, just as he wished so desperately to do. Needed to do. 

Surely it was his imagination, but he thought he could see the shadow of one dark nipple through the cloth. Was it possible? Oh, how he wanted her breast in his mouth! How he wanted to tear her hands away and replace them with his own, with his hands, his tongue, his cock. He wanted her so badly that it caused him physical pain.

With another gasp, Claire pinched the nipple with her fingers and let out a breathy, “Ooooh,” and this undid him completely. With a gasp of his own, Jamie grabbed his own flesh beneath his kilt and began to pump. 

At first he held his breath, fearing his own sounds would draw her out to investigate, until he grew dizzy, then he let out ragged gasps against the wood. There was nothing for it. He was powerless in the face of his lust for this woman, in the sight of her gently moving form, in earshot of her soft, private sounds. A siren she was, and he a sailor helpless against her shores.

On the other side of the door, Claire gasped, sighed, and groaned. Jamie memorized every breath. She twisted, arched, and squirmed. He hopelessly imagined every movement against his own body. He held himself rigid, every muscle as tight and tense as the moment before battle, but this time losing the fight against his conscience completely. Again and again, he moved his fist over impossibly hard flesh. Never in his life had he been so aroused. 

Perhaps he was still dreaming. He almost hoped he was, because he didn’t think he’d ever be able to look her in the eye again. Even if he was, indeed, asleep, and none of this was real, he likely couldn’t talk to her without stammering ever again. Because he knew that from this point on, this was how he would see Claire Beauchamp, no matter where she was or what she was doing. 

Yet just when he thought he couldn’t take it any longer, when the moans through the door were too much, when the lines of her own body seemed as tightly strung, as taut, as his own, she cried out faintly, a single word, and he climaxed, bucking uncontrollably against his hand.

Spent, Jamie let all of his weight fall against Claire’s door. One part of his mind noted idly that he'd made a mess of things, literally, but the larger part his brain was consumed with what he had seen and heard. He finally thought to peer through the hole again, still wishing ridiculously that she might open it and pull him in. But she was motionless, breathing deeply as she returned into restful slumber. 

He, on the other hand, did not rest. Her voice echoed in his ears, in his mind, in his memory. That word. That single word. Had she said…? No. Not possible. Surely it was only wishful thinking. He drove the thought from his brain.

After removing all traces of his spying, he crept down the stairs and outside. Thankfully, no one was awake to see him. It was only now that he realized how exposed he had been. Anyone could have rounded the corner and caught him abusing himself. He was lucky her room was isolated, and it was late. He paced for a while, wondering if that had actually happened, any of it. Finally he curled up in a corner of the stable for a little rest. His dreams were full of Claire. 

The next morning, she sat across from him at the table, two seats away. He could easily see her out of the corner of his eye, though he steadfastly refused to lift his head from his bowl. Better that he sink into the parrich and drown than look directly at her after what he had done. 

Ned, having no such compunctions, took the seat directly across from her and smiled brightly. “Good morning, Mistress Beauchamp! I trust you slept well last night?”

Jamie couldn't help but look. Her eyes darted quickly to his, and a deep blush spread across her cheeks. She immediately dropped her gaze, but it was too late. He had already seen. “I… I had…very sweet dreams indeed.” 

And then he was sure. The entire experience rushed back to him, from the first moment of her nudity, to her moans, to the way she had writhed. But most of all, the final moment, which had consumed him. He had suspected it when she cried out for the last time, but she was too quiet for him to be certain. But now he knew. It hadn’t been a figment of his fevered imagination. Last night, when she had triggered the most intense climax of his life, Claire had called out his name.

 


End file.
